


Baskerville Folly

by RainStormageddon



Category: Granada Holmes - Fandom, Jeremy Brett Holmes, Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Hound of the Baskervilles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:41:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27591508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainStormageddon/pseuds/RainStormageddon
Summary: Holmes has a flair for the dramatic that Watson does not appreciate! But these boys love each other and can sort it out. Takes place in the Baskervilles Granada episode right after Holmes reveals he’s been chilling in a cave the whole time.
Relationships: Holmes/Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	Baskerville Folly

Watson watched Doctor Mortimer disappear across the moor. His head was spinning. The weeks without Holmes had been hard, and now the man himself appeared, smiling, to say that he’d been there almost all along. Been there, but not told Watson. Yes, Watson savored being called brilliant by the man he admired above all others. But did Holmes really think his head would be turned by a smile and a few kind words?

Holmes was calling to him jovially, and Watson turned to follow. He was always happy to follow Holmes, to go along with his schemes, to play the part assigned to him. He had no pride when it came to Holmes, and would happily do whatever he was asked. He hadn’t wanted to leave their home at Baker Street to come, alone, to this grim place full of unfriendly strangers. He’d done it, without complaint or grudge, because Holmes had asked it of him. And now it turned out he’d done it needlessly. He felt used and untrusted. He’d thought Holmes thought better of him. He seethed silently as he followed Holmes into the cave.

Holmes was in high spirits. He moved quickly about the cave as Watson, trying not to sulk, turned the lamp up and sat by the rickety table. Holmes was speaking rapidly of the case and mixing something in a pot. He looked peculiarly at home in his surroundings, moving with confident knowledge of where things were, and avoiding the spots where the cave ceiling threatened a man of his height. Watson reflected sourly that he’d certainly had plenty of time to become familiar with the place.

“Try my stew, Watson,” Holmes said, pouring the contents of the pot onto a white and blue china plate on the table.  
Watson stared at the mess as Holmes continued to speak about the case. It appeared to contain potatoes, alongside other less identifiable objects. It was one uniform color that did not seem to suggest edibility. He looked up as Holmes urged him again to try it.

“It looks quite disgusting, Holmes,” he said coldly.

Holmes was visibly taken aback. Watson furiously tried to ignore the stab of guilt he felt at the hurt that showed so plainly on Holmes’ face. No artifice or cunning hid his emotions as the two men sat, silent for a moment, alone in this odd setting.

“Yes,” Holmes agreed at last, “Yes it is. Well, it’s better warm.”

Another silence stretched between them. Watson felt they were miles apart. He longed to close the distance, but he didn’t know what to say or how to overcome his hurt. Holmes busied himself clearing away the untouched stew, tidying his makeshift kitchen.

“I’m glad you’ve been enjoying your time in Devon,” he said at length, in a tone that conveyed no real gladness.

“Enjoying my time in Devon?” Watson repeated. “What the devil are you talking about now?”

“You’re disappointed to find me here,” Holmes said, turning at last from his dishes to face Watson. “I apologize for interrupting your pleasant walk with Doctor Mortimer. You did not include in your reports that he is a most handsome man, though I can understand why you would leave that particular detail out.”

Watson could not have been more surprised if Holmes had sprouted wings on the spot and flown away. His mouth opened and closed for a moment as he tried to summon a response to this piece of absurdity, made twice as absurd by the fact that Holmes was usually so clever. 

“And now you are angry,” Holmes added, “Which tells me that I have struck a nerve.”

“Angry does not begin to cover it!” Watson exploded. “Here you are, in the flesh, having happily confessed to deceiving me and using me, laughing as though it were all a great joke! I have been in exile, gathering information and distilling it into reports for your benefit, alone in this dreadful place, because you asked me to! And all this time you were here, playing at camping! Did you not think for one moment how I must be feeling? That is cold even for you, Holmes. Enjoying my time in Devon indeed! Not a moment has passed that I haven’t wished for your company. Did you really miss me so very little?”

Watson stood so quickly that he knocked his chair over. His hands shook. He’d never known Holmes to be so completely wrong about a situation. He’d never been so angry with the blasted man! It was utterly unlike Holmes to be so foolish.

Holmes looked extremely pale, and his eyes were wide. Watson scowled at him, waiting for him to say something. Holmes just stood there, staring, as if he hoped Watson could read his thoughts upon his face. It was rare for him to look so open and vulnerable, with no sign of the mask he usually wore. It cut Watson to the core to see Holmes look so simply distressed, and know that he was the cause. He found some of his anger draining away.

“I won’t apologize, Holmes,” he said firmly.

“I will not ask you to, my dear, dear Watson,” Holmes said in a rush. “I can see that I have wounded you deeply, and it is I who must apologize. Once again I find that my unfortunate tendency toward the dramatic is not appropriate in matters of the heart. My dearest Watson, I sent you here alone because you are the only person in the world I trust. I should have been open with you from the start. Now I find that I have betrayed your trust in me most seriously. 

“I did not, at first, intend to come to Devon nearly as soon as I did. But Baker Street without you there quickly became intolerable, so I thought I would be very clever and surprise you. I have been so taken with the thought of surprising you, and with my own cleverness, that I have let things go far too far. You’ve reproached me before for exactly that tendency. You were correct then, and you are correct now. I am sorrier than I can say.”

Watson saw tears in Holmes eyes, and felt answering ones in his own. He was still angry, yes, but he could never see Holmes upset without being affected himself. Anger battled with his desire to forgive and comfort Holmes. Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, Holmes took a breath and continued.

“My comments about Doctor Mortimer were petty and absolutely beneath me. You are quite right that you are here because I asked you to be. I have no right to be hurt, and I have no right to speak to you as I did. And as for missing you, Watson…”

Holmes stepped closer and reached out, taking one of Watson’s hands in both of his.

“The moment you left I cursed myself for asking you to go. I haunted Baker Street like a ghost. Does an amputee miss his right hand after it is gone? I am lost without you. I am sorry from the depths of my cold and silly heart.”

Watson heaved a sigh. There had been a time, when they had first come to their understanding, when fights like these were frequent. Slowly but surely, they were learning each other's weaknesses and tendencies. Holmes knew exactly what he had done wrong, though it was on a particularly large scale this time. 

“Your heart is neither cold nor silly,” Watson said. “I think, rather, that it is impulsive and excitable. I want no grand gestures or clever surprises, Holmes. You know that. I simply want you.”

He closed the small space that remained between then and took Holmes in his arms, glad to dispense with anger and rows.

“I’m so sorry, John,” Holmes whispered into his shoulder, long arms closing around Watson’s waist.

“You’re forgiven,” Watson replied, pressing a kiss to the top of Holmes’s head. “Just please, the next time you have an urge to go camping, invite me. I shall be happy to come.”

Holmes laughed softly, his voice breaking a little. He lifted his head, dark eyes meeting Watson’s, smiling through the last of his tears.

“It’s a long time since you’ve spoken to me so harshly,” he said softly. “I must endeavor to avoid further reprimands in the future.”

“Your suggestion that I was enjoying myself with Doctor Mortimer was so far from the truth,” Watson told him. “I was angry that you could be so obtuse!”

“Jealousy makes the wisest of men act like fools,” Holmes said quietly.

Watson released him and stepped back, a shocked look on his face. He began to grin.

“Jealousy?” he repeated, and there was something like glee in his voice. “You, the great Sherlock Holmes, jealous?”

“I have in my possession the greatest treasure in all the world,” Holmes said, deadly serious. “Of course I am jealous of it. I should not like to see it in the hands of another.”

Watson laughed, long and loud, the relief of the fight’s end making him feel tired but happy.

“I don’t know that I am a great treasure,” he replied. “But I can promise you will never find me in the hands of another.”

“John Watson, you are the greatest treasure any man could ever hope to find. I could live a dozen lifetimes and never discover anyone or anything that compared to you.”

And with that statement, Holmes took hold of Watson’s collar and drew him into a kiss. It was a kiss of friends reunited after too long a separation, a kiss of apologies and forgiveness, of trust, laughter, relief, and deep, true love.


End file.
